Lightning Without Thunder

I was late coming from Mombasa, or later than I would have liked. It was 4:30pm as I approached the stop for my matatu, and the last round of matatus toward my home come at 5. Usually they are all full.

As I alighted, I saw one of my matatu's pull in to the stage. My lucky day this time, because I didn't want to walk the 10km with my heavy backpack full of coconuts, books and other spoils from Mombasa. And it looked like it was going to rain. Already the rain pounded hard on the ride over, forming streaked puddles in the dips and valleys of the road. It must also have been raining for some time, because large pools collected in various places and a few Maasai could be seen bathing in the dirty water- though undoubtedly not as dirty as their nomadic skin.

But luck was not with me this time around; as I approached the matatu I realized it was packed full to the brim, still with 7 people waiting to get on. With a long sigh I mentally steeled myself for a long and cold journey home. After glancing at my watch I quickened my pace, it was 4:40pm and the sun sets at 6, with the last bits of light fading not more than a half-hour later. The ominous rain clouds darkened the sky, and I knew I had less light to work with. I hoped to make it home in two hours.

Not 200 meters down the road, the matatu rolled by- the conductor looked at me as if to ask if I wanted a ride, and I shouted, “nitasimama!” or “I will stand!”, hoping there was enough room to save me from the long journey home. The matatu stopped, and I boarded the side, standing on a platform where a child or elderly lady would use to boost them up to the cabin. I felt around for anything I could possibly grab on to, as my heavy backpack threatened to pry me from my grip. In front of me stood the conductor who usually stands if the matatu gets full, and behind me another passenger. It was the second time I stood on the outside of a matatu.

Each jerk and bump on the muddy road assaulted my fallible grip and stung the muscles in my arms. I pulled in closer at times to the car, trying to keep both me and my backpack safe from the overhanging thorn trees off the side of the road. Passengers whose heads knocked into my elbows didn't seem to mind, and each time I glanced back at my fellow standing passenger, he cracked a wide, gap-toothed smile.

During my ride, I noticed the ash-grey sky looming over the hills to my left, and the clouds pouring over the tops like ocean waves breaking on the rocks. The wind blew my hair back and large drops of rain began to fall, landing hard on my face. Through squinting eyes I saw in the distance long streaks of lightning pierce through the sky, illuminating the dark clouds and sending shivers of awe down my spine. The bolts were perfect, picturesque, as if Zeus himself were hurling them from the clouds above. With such vicious and unavailing bolts, I expected booming thunder, but the thunder was muted by the rushing wind in my ears, and further by the screaming children who came running after the matatu, splashing dirt in the shallow puddles behind.

I smiled to myself. It's moments like this that become instant memories, that startle and awaken any sleeping dreams and aspirations. It's moments like this that you drink in your morning coffee when you are 54, and upon recollection the memories dance in your mind and strengthen your resolve.

As I reflected on the moment, with lightning crashing on the horizon and beyond I looked up into the dark sky and offered a silent prayer. "I could not ask for more."